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fandom-space-princess · 3 years ago

Text

The Game of Us

Rating: T (gen, no warnings)

Chapter 3: Raphael

Read below the cut, or on AO3

************************************

With Gabriel gone, the shades begin to dissipate, and soon Michael finds himself alone once again.

It doesn’t last long.

“Well done,” comes a voice from behind him. The tone is the same as before, but now the words are spoken aloud. The entity’s form has shifted. It wears a body that, while still indistinct and hazy, appears far closer to human than it had previously done.

Michael scrambles to his feet. He can feel his own form shifting as well, physical appearance undergoing continental drift atop his roiling grace.

“You took her. Gabriel. What have you done with her?”

“Please try to keep up, my boy. I took nothing and no one. The messenger is safe and well, merely—well, let’s call it offstage, for the moment. And she came quite willingly, as you saw for yourself.” The entity folds its hands neatly in front of it. “I see that she has given you much to consider. I trust your time together was informative?”

“That’s—one way of phrasing it.” The entity moves away, beckoning, and Michael doesn’t fight the impulse to follow. At the termination of the crevice, just outside the circle of crumbling stones, he is unsurprised to see that the path continues deeper into the forest.

As they walk, low-hanging branches catch and drag at his hair, his clothing. Michael feels as though he might be leaving snippets of himself behind, like fur snagged in brambles along the trail. He thinks of Gabriel’s wispy audience with sorrow. “So much of the Host, dead and gone. So many shades. I knew, of course I knew. But seeing them there... it’s not the same.” Regret swirls within him, settling as a tightness around his eyes; he can feel it there, performing the subtle work of reshaping the image he wears.

Into what, though—he doesn’t yet know.

The being at his side nods, curt. “You must understand where your actions lead. Not solely for yourself, but for others. You cannot abdicate your duty to your nature by refusing to choose, any more than you can by making choices.” He gets the impression that it raises its eyebrows meaningfully in his direction. “In your brief period of freedom, you knew the state of Heaven, and yet you turned your back on your responsibilities. On Earth, with that human—that wasn’t choosing. You were hiding.”

The words dig at him, slivers of ice working their way into the center of his grace. Adam. “He needed me. And I needed to keep him safe.”

“That’s a partial truth at best, and I’ve no interest in coddling self-delusion. Try again.”

Being dead, he is discovering, has a way of making it harder to lie to himself. Shame flares low in his stomach. “I... I should have done better by them all. They were my family, and I failed them. I couldn’t face them. Couldn’t face—”

He stops. The path has led them to the edge of another river. Crystalline and clear, smooth as glass, it burbles quietly past their feet. It winds away in lazy curves, disappearing into the deeper shade of the trees.

Michael looks down at his reflection, and his Father’s face looks back at him.

A hand on his shoulder. “I am not without sympathy for your pain,” the being at his back says, gently. “But running from it is no solution. The realm of Heaven is in disarray. Without you and your kin, it will fall, new God or no. And then—whatever it is you love, whatever it is you fear—then there will truly be nothing left to salvage.”

Michael crouches down, touches fingertips to the image of Chuck’s face. Tiny ripples distort the surface, rebounding off each other, spreading and fading away. “This isn’t the Styx. None of this should be here at all. What have you done to the local reality? And to what purpose?”

“Ask your next brother. They always were the wisest of you.”

This time, Michael doesn’t need to turn to know he is alone.

************************************

He follows the river further into the wilds, meandering gradually down the mountainside. The underbrush thins with the change in altitude, and the straggling trees grow steadily sparser. Before long he finds himself among yet more ruins, though these appear considerably more modern than the last. The river glides through the bones of a forgotten city. He picks his way along streets of stone dwellings adorned by grand archways, airy courtyards, monolithic houses of worship. Mist twines in and among the silent remains of civilization, and everywhere he looks he sees the incursion of the forest: trees growing in cracking walls, moss overhanging low rooftops.

Near the center of the city, both buildings and trees grow abruptly denser once again. A thicket of olive trees and creeping ivy, solid and unassailable, tangle up through ruined foundations and collapsed walls. The river seeps between the roots and disappears under a wall, alongside a single narrow entryway into what must once have been a church. It is barely wide enough to permit him entrance.

He pushes forward, through the vines.

An uneasy aura pervades the air within, musty and stifling, heavy across his shoulders and thick in his lungs. The further in he travels, the stronger it becomes. As it intensifies, he realizes that the feeling is not solely physical; a heady and potent psychic residue that he recognizes as grief only when he finds himself choking back a sob, without understanding quite why.

Down an overgrown corridor, and as suddenly as the vegetation had closed in upon him, it clears. He finds himself in an interior courtyard, roof all but gone, open under the sky.

“So, I get to see you again, after all. Hello, Michael.”

He looks around, confused, for a moment unable to identify the source of the words. Then, all at once, he sees.

In the quiet grove that has sprung up to consume this once-thriving city stands a sparkling pool, the termination point of the river’s above-ground course. Here the water stagnates, swirling deeper into a reservoir carved through foundation and bedrock to disappear into the earth. A stand of trees grows about the edge, roots worming deep down to seek the water through cracks in the floor. What he had originally taken for a statue carved into that living wood shifts minutely. Raphael meditates among the trunks, limbs now gnarled branches, head crowned by thick twisting ivy.

They are, he realizes, the source of the pain imbuing this place. He circles the pool and seats himself beside them, back bending under the onerous weight of their distress.

“You’ve taken His face,” they observe. Their voice holds neither scorn nor approval. Only sorrow. “Don’t take this personally, but I don’t think it suits you.”

“I’m not so certain of that,” he replies morosely. He brushes his hand lightly over the back of one of their own, firm and warm as olive wood. “And you’ve given up on a human form at all. I didn’t realize you held any fondness for dryads.”

“I needed—a change of perspective.” There is, momentarily, a hint of wry smile in their voice. Even on their worst days, he reflects, Raphael always held a spark of gentleness. It makes him ache for them; warrior and healer both, the only one among them as truly skilled in restoring life as taking it. They had never needed his protection, but he should have done more to uplift and support them, still. “Hamadryads have no skin to stitch. No bones to set. They neither bleed, nor do they break. They put down roots, and they grow, and they watch the world pass. It’s a peaceable enough existence.”

“Brother, you—you do realize where we are.”

Raphael rolls their eyes. “I’m dead, Michael, not blind.” They shake their head, ivy tumbling back and out of their face. Michael realizes, abruptly, that the ivy is a deep emerald green; like the blindfold Gabriel had worn, it is the only point of color against the otherwise monochrome environment.

“Then maybe you can enlighten me. I was sent to find you. By... well, I still don’t really know by who.”

“Don’t you, though?”

“I don’t,” he replies, adamant. “I can’t see the purpose to this, any of this. We are asked to return to the world, but to what end? What makes him think—” Michael breaks off, defeated.

“What makes him think we’d do any good for it this time around?” Raphael finishes knowingly.

Michael studies his reflection in the water, and says nothing.

They shake their head again, turning to contemplate the pool. “Did you know this pool has no bottom? If you fell in, you’d sink for eternity. There’d be no point in swimming; you couldn’t save yourself.”

“Why do you sound like you’re considering it?”

Raphael sighs. “I tried so hard, Michael. I fought and bled and died for our family, and still, it fell apart. You’re wearing His face, and for what? You blame yourself?” They look down at their palms, loose in their lap. The wood there is stained; in a place with light, with color, Michael wonders with a shiver if the stains might not appear the ruddy brown of old blood. “But I was our healer, Brother. And I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t heal anyone.” The sadness in the atmosphere redoubles, clawing over Michael’s skin.

Their voice cracks. “I couldn’t even heal myself. He wouldn’t even allow me that much.”

Michael’s head drops to his hands. This agony, like a breaking bone or a breaking heart, has been eating at their foundations for so long. Gabriel struck speechless, Raphael in tatters, and himself—what had he done for them? Other than carry out the edicts of a creator who treated his creation as no better than toys, to be discarded when He was bored of them?

He feels tears bead at the corners of his eyes, and overflow. To his astonishment, they do not fall onto his hands. He draws back in surprise.

The tears hang suspended in the air before him, crystalline. Gently revolving, they slowly coalesce, and descend toward the pool. When at last they meet the surface of the water, they merge without a single ripple marring the glassy shine.

Raphael watches, impassive. “Our pain is not weakness, Michael. This grief... it took some time, but I did eventually come to understand. Why I awoke here, that is. You met Gabriel at the Styx? Fitting. Judgement always was her burden to bear. But this... this is mine. The Kokytos is fed by the tears of mourners.” Their voice rings hollow, but there is an underpinning of tenderness there, Michael thinks. Something patient. Something compassionate. “My own contribution was long overdue.”

“How do you know where I came from? And why the rivers at all?”

“My stubborn, immovable brother.” Raphael’s smile is weary, but fond, even in their grief. “This place is his to command, he who sent you here, beyond mortality as it is. Knowledge flows through it. You need only listen for it.”

Michael scrubs hands across his eyes, and takes slow, steadying breaths. “Raphael. You don't belong here, not like this. Please. Move on from this place with me. We can do it together.”

Their eyes crinkle at the corners. Gently, they extend a hand down to break the surface of the pool. “No, Michael. In that, you are mistaken. It has been too long since I allowed myself to sit with my pain, and learn what it has to teach me. Give me time. I’ll catch up with you.” They draw the hand to their face. Trace their fingers over their lips. The tip of their tongue flicks out, catching at the water that beads there. “If I am to heal, first I must let myself mourn. Don’t worry too much about me. I know how far the river of lamentation runs; I will not drink so deeply of this well that I drown.”

The thought of leaving Raphael behind fills him with dread, but he nods. Stands. They reach up to him, trace a hand over his wrist as he pulls away.

“I wish I could have done more for you, too,” they murmur. “But you aren’t Him, Michael. Please remember that. You’re nothing like Him. I wish I could have helped you to see that more clearly.”

Michael resists the urge to look back into the pool, to see his reflection there. “I don’t know what I am. But I’ll keep searching until I do know.”

“That’s all I could hope for. See you soon.”

He feels the edges of his countenance shift and blur again. When he exits the room, his companion is waiting.

************************************

(Chapter notes:

- The city in which Michael finds Raphael is inspired by the ghost city of Kayaköy, currently part of Turkey; by its former inhabitants, it was referred to in modern Greek as Levissi. Between World War I and the Greco-Turkish war, its entire population was either forcibly exiled or killed. Despite the horror of that recent history, until that point it had been a relatively peaceful place, its mixed Muslim and Orthodox Christian populations living together harmoniously. It is now officially under the protection of historical conservation, and there have been some attempts at restoration. I think Raphael would consider such a place deeply meaningful, and be able to find healing in the possibility of moving on even in the wake of such tragedy.)

#hugs for raphael <3 #spnarchangelweek #day 2 raphael #michael spn #gabriel spn #raphael spn #lucifer spn #my fanfic #spn #supernatural

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slightlyrebelliouswriter23 · 5 years ago

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To Dance With Danger | Jurdan Whump Fic

Anon asked: “Can you write something about how Jude gets hurt somewhere and the Court of Shadows and Cardan go looking for her”

Summary: “The only thing he knew was the weight on his chest, two boulders sinking into the concavity of his lungs. How furious he was with Jude, and how much that didn’t matter. That her favourite flower was the blue bellflower, and its petals were falling from the throne.” Please forgive me.

Rating: T

CW: Mild cursing. Minor mentions of abuse (~) and vomit (*); Paragraphs containing these sensitivities have been marked with the allocated warnings. Major descriptions of pain and delusions.

Part I | Part III | AO3 | Masterlist

Part II- Follow You Down To the Red Oak Tree

She’d never considered herself stupid.

Foolish, maybe once or twice. But Jude Duarte-Greenbriar was never an idiot outright. So it came as a great shock to her when she found herself bleeding out in a cave in the middle of the Milkwood.

Wouldn’t this be a hilarious way to go? All her life, Jude had been worried about time peeling her right out of her own mortal skin. Yet here she was, dying from a paltry cut.

That last thought, she knew was stupid. This was more than a paltry cut. It throbbed like a second heartbeat and burned like her knee was a plate of scrambled eggs someone was pushing around with a fork.

A small pool of spilled blood darkened the ground near her ankles. Sometimes, her vision narrowed, blurred.

Perhaps this was one last way for the stars to taunt her. Give her everything she ever wanted and more than she could possibly hope for; a grand feast befitting of a Queen, spread out just for her; then rip her away from herself like the tablecloth in one of those mortal magic tricks.

Jude was not afraid.

When you’d lived your whole life knowing the promise of death was the single certainty of your existence, you tended to come to terms with it. So Jude did not fear dying. Only the horrible, yawning oblivion that came after.

☽☽☽☽☽

It was a quarter past one, and Cardan’s feet were flying. Out his chamber doors, down the spiral stairs, right to the little wooden door opposite the library, which he promptly began pounding on.

There was a groan within, some shuffling. Then, “It’s the middle of the day, for Mab’s sake,” a groggy voice came muffled from behind the door. “What could possibly be so—oh.”

The Bomb, all messy-haired, eyes squinting at the brightness of the hall, let the door creak open a fraction before realising who exactly had summoned her from sleep. She opened the door in full.

“Cardan—erm, I mean… Your Majesty,” she said, brows furrowing. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Pleasure?” Another even-more-groggy voice came from inside the room. “I’ve got a mallet hammering at my brain thanks to him. Bloody pusher. You can tell His Majesty to kindly sod off.” The Roach held a pillow over his gnarled green head and a rude finger up in the direction of the door.

“Van,” the Bomb tutted over her shoulder. She pulled her dressing gown tight around her and faced the High King again. Only then did she seem to register the look on his face.

“Liliver,” Cardan said, frantic. His mind was all static, hollow—so very full of nothing. Words felt like they came through a tangle of tree sap and brambles in his throat. “It’s Jude.”

That’s all it took.

The Court of Shadows was moving, the guard summoned. Even the Roach managed to scrape himself together. The Ghost slipped into their ranks just as they were passing through the throne room, and informed the High King he’d done a sweep of the palace, just to be sure.

“And?” Cardan demanded, pivoting on his heel to face the sharpshooter.

“She’s not here,” the Ghost said.

Cardan’s mouth set into a grim line. He gave a curt nod, but his stare lingered on the dais. Where the pair of thrones sat, a latticework of woven roots and blossoms. They seemed to be holding their breath, too.

From the back of the leftmost royal seat, a deep blue flower petal shivered. Then it was falling in listless swoops and dives, whispering across the seat of the chair.

Hurry.

“Get a carriage,” Cardan said, just loud enough to be heard. The room was silent as a snowbank. “Go.”

There was a beat. Then, the din of metal and rushing of boots and they were all moving again.

The High King and his men took to the forests, guarded with crossbows and swords that might as well be spoons for how much they would protect against the glimpses.

Cardan didn’t know why his wife had decided to catch a glimpse. He had even less of a clue as to why she thought she had to do it alone.

The only thing he knew was the weight on his chest, two boulders sinking into the concavity of his lungs. How furious he was with Jude, and how much that didn’t matter. That her favourite flower was the blue bellflower, and its petals were falling from the throne.

☽☽☽☽☽

Night was encroaching. This, Jude only knew because the game she’d invented—finding pictures in the cracks and shadows of the cave wall to beat back the tide of sleep—was becoming more and more difficult.

She shivered. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been lying there, but the fever had set in.

Jude couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had a fever. It must’ve been when she was six or seven. When she was still living in the mortal world, and her mother was still alive to take care of her and getting fevers was the most of her worries.

Eva had climbed into her bed with two washcloths and snuggled up real close.

She’d sat there for hours, pressing the warm compress to Jude’s forehead when she was too cold and the cold compress to her forehead when she was too warm. Telling her stories of magical places. Feeding her saltines and seltzer.

Jude had wholly forgotten how it felt to have a fever. It was as if she was being filled to the brim with hot wax and dunked in a bucket of ice water at the same time.

She’d only recently rediscovered how it felt to be comforted. She wondered if she’d ever feel that again.

Maybe, Jude thought, she could imagine herself some comfort. She was so very good at lying, after all. Maybe she could lie to herself. Just for a little while.

She stared up at the ceiling, listening to the woeful sighs of the glimpses ebb and flow from outside the cave.

She imagined lying next to Cardan in their bed in the Royal Chambers. With nowhere to be and nothing to do, Cardan would cocoon them both in satin sheets, trace lazy shapes around her bare shoulders with the tips of his fingers. Pepper her back with nips and kisses.

He would agree to be the big spoon for once since she was the one in need of comforting.

“Jude,” he would say softly, caressing her cheek, brushing the hair away from her eyes, “You are perhaps the single most important thing in my life.”

She’d turn her head to nuzzle the crook of his neck. “And you, mine, my love,” she’d say. He smelled like fallen leaves. And burnt toast.

Jude crinkled her nose. Odd. He didn’t usually smell like burnt toast. Had they just had breakfast? She couldn’t remember….

“I don’t understand.” Cardan’s voice was dipped in worry, and he paused the soothing circles of his fingers.

“Cardan,” Jude said, rolling her eyes, “We’ve been over this. I want to be here. I want to be with you. I love you.”

Sometimes her husband just needed a little reminding. Sometimes she preferred to give him that reminder in other, much more wicked ways. Perhaps today she would give him both.

A sinful smile curled the corners of Jude’s lips. She turned around in Cardan’s arms to face him fully and was about to seal the morning off with a kiss, followed by further disreputable behaviour, when she noticed the look on his face.

It was the same one he wore when he’d looked at her from the riverbank after pushing her in a lifetime ago. The same one that had graced his face when she’d first placed that crown atop his head.

Now, in the bed they shared, Cardan looked at her with nothing but cold ire. “How could you do it?” he whispered, and Jude’s brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?” She didn’t know why, but something slick like tar settled in the pit of her stomach. She wanted him to smooth the crease between her brows. To kiss her forehead and call her his darling god.

But Cardan’s face remained a glacial effigy of the man she’d come to love. With nothing but disdain, he looked down his nose at her and asked, “How could you kill him? How could you murder my brother?”

*Jude sat up straight and vomited all over the cave floor. Then, she was pulled out to sea by a riptide of sleep.

☽☽☽☽☽

The High Queen of Elfhame was spinning. Round and round, a circle of fever dreams.

It was like sitting on a merry-go-round and looking in towards the centre where all those mirrors usually hang. Watching whirling versions of things and lights and yourself pass you by in the reflective panels moving in the opposite direction.

One terrible vision after the next.

Locke’s water-logged body, blue-green and covered in seaweed, standing at the mouth of the cave. Valerian, dirt pouring from between his teeth as he smiled, walling up the entrance with stones, then filling the cave with blood. Balekin ensorceling her to kiss him, then turning into a giant moth right as her lips touched his. Cardan’s head on a pike with upturned eyes, jaw dropped as if mid-warning. A voice in her head.

Heeding requests, even my own, is the singular skill which evades her grand arsenal.

No key fits every lock.

I do not want Balekin dead.

How could you do it? How could you murder my brother?

Perhaps this is what she deserved. Perhaps she was a monster who couldn’t control herself long enough to keep from hurting those she loved, no better than Madoc. Perhaps Valerian’s curse was coming to fruition, after all.

If Jude could have laughed, she would have. But she could not. Dark waves lapped at the shores of her consciousness; and who was she to ignore the sea?

☽☽☽☽☽

Eventually, there was another voice in her head.

Shit, it said. Yes, she really was in very deep shit.

I FOUND HER, it bellowed, splintering her thoughts. She wondered if she should tell the voice to shut up. Though, it probably already knew that’s what she wanted, since it was in her head, and had probably heard her think it.

It was getting crowded in here. Her head was a swollen, throbbing balloon.

Fucking shit, the voice repeated.

Well, she thought, that was quite rude. No way to address a lady, such as herself. Whoever she was.

Something prodded her leg.

A sudden, violent wave of pain swept over her. It rose and rose and rose, but never fell. Darkness pulled her to its depths again.

☽☽☽☽☽

Can you hear me?

Stay awake. Stay. Awake.

*The voice was urgent. And constant. And very annoying. It felt like a cheese grater running down her mind. Her throat burned. Maybe the voice had run a cheese grater over that, too. Her hand slid into something wet. It smelled like sick.

Then, there was a cold compress on her forehead.

“Mom?” she croaked, her voice like cracked plaster. She lifted the heavy weight of her eyelids.

A figure was looming over her. It was too dark to see who, but her heart thrashed against her chest, all the same. This was another terrible dream. She was not sure she could take another one of those. Then again, she was in no position to fend it off if it decided to come. She was in no position to do anything, really.

“Not mom, Your Majesty,” the figure sighed, removing the compress. “You’re burning up.”

Not a compress. Hands.

“Whose Majesty?” she asked through the haze in her mind. Everything was so confusing. Everything was also spinning.

She heard rummaging. Next thing she knew, a match had been struck, and the room filled with warm light. The figure looking down at her was indeed a woman, though it was indeed not her mother.

She had familiar plumes of white hair circling her head like smoke. Full, wine-red lips pressed into a weak smile. “Hello, Jude,” the woman said.

Yes, that must be who she was. She opened her mouth to thank the beautiful woman for the reminder, but all Jude could seem to do was squint. She knew this woman from somewhere.

“I’m going to pick you up now, okay?”

Jude could not muster the wherewithal to reply. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, slid gingerly under her knees. Then, the world tilted, shifted, until she was right up against something warm and solid.

Jude looked up at the woman. “You’re ethereal,” she murmured, staring up at the soft planes of her face. Blush blossomed a stain of pink across the woman’s cheeks. “Are you god?”

The woman snorted, then. Jude didn’t understand what was so funny. It seemed a perfectly reasonable question to ask. Since she was dying, and all.

“That’s quite enough of that, Your Majesty,” the woman said. “Let’s get you home.”

Home, Jude mused. She’d thought she was home, but maybe… she was wrong? Wherever home was, it sounded nice. She should like to go there someday.

☽☽☽☽☽

She was deep inside a cave. She could see nothing, but echoes of conversation pinged off the walls.

Delirious. Didn’t know who I was.

Reckon it’s the fever?

The infection perhaps?

Could be, but you need to keep her awake.

Can I hold her? Please?

The moon was a Cheshire cat smile above her. It grinned, then shattered into one hundred panes of opaline glass—a dragonfly’s wing, splitting her knee wide open.

☽☽☽☽☽

When Jude woke again, she knew she was home.

She was being jostled around a bit, and her leg felt like someone had set it on fire, but she didn’t mind. She was wrapped in something soft. The sound of hooves on packed earth thundered in her ears.

Her name was being called.

“Jude,” someone said, over and over, a litany. A curse. “Jude, my love, you mustn’t fall asleep. You must stay awake. Can you do that for me, Jude? Please, stay with me.”

She opened her eyes. Blinked slow. The disembodied voice belonged to someone. That someone cradled her in his lap, holding her face between his hands. Everything was blurry, but she’d know those hands anywhere.

“Jude?” he whispered.

She summoned the tattered bits of her strength, lifting her hand to cover one of his. It was shaking.

“I know you,” Jude said, willing her eyes to focus. A keening sound tore from him.

Him. She knew his name. What was it? Her mind was so muddled by exhaustion and the riot of pain in her left leg, she could not remember. She was so angry at herself for not remembering.

Jude frowned. Huffed. Tried to refocus her eyes. It was the most important name, more important even than her own. She was a terrible person for forgetting it. She was pretty sure she was a terrible person anyway, but forgetting his name made her even worse.

She lifted a hand to his cheek. Her frown deepened. “Why is your face wet?”

“Because I’m very worried for my wife,” he said, in a strained sort of voice.

“You have a wife?” Envy billowed, a parachute in her chest. Which was ridiculous. She couldn’t even see this man. How could she possibly know if she was jealous?

He breathed a laugh. “Yes,” he told her, stroking her hair gently. “She is a headstrong, ornery fool who holds a vendetta against my poor nerves.”

Everything was quite difficult at the moment. All Jude could think was how beautiful this man’s voice sounded and how very badly she wanted to go back to sleep.

“Hmm.” She closed her eyes again. “She sounds awful.”

“No,” he said. “She is not.”

☽☽☽☽☽

*Watching his wife being carried off like a rag doll into the Royal Chambers, blood-spattered and covered in her own sick, Cardan Greenbriar had never felt so small.

~He felt smaller now than when Dain had tricked him, and he’d been kicked out of the palace for a murder he did not commit. Smaller now than all the times Balekin had removed his belt. Smaller now than when he was a kid crawling beneath the dining table, scrounging for scraps of food and attention.

The Bomb had explicitly forbidden Cardan from accompanying them further than the ante-chamber.

“If I’m going to heal her,” she’d said to him firmly, pausing outside the bedroom doors, “I’m going to need the utmost focus. Which will certainly not be achieved by you being in there, all blubbering and sentimental. So unless you know anything about mortal biology…”

Cardan had never in his life wished to be mortal; but suddenly, the desire to be one was visceral. He’d never wanted to lie more than he did in that moment. He tried to will the words past his lips, but they snagged in his throat.

He was unable as ever.

So he’d been kicked out of his own bedroom. Away from his own wife. Who may or may not be dying.

The matter was still inconclusive. Cardan read it on the faces of the cycle of people poking their heads out in intervals to check on him or bring him tea. Sometimes, it was the Roach. Sometimes, the Ghost. Only once was it the Bomb, who had been hard at work for endless hours, and needed a break.

Her face was just as dour as the rest.

“I know how you’re feeling,” she muttered, sliding down the wall to sit next to him on the floor just outside the bedroom doors. “If you need to talk—”

“What I need, Liliver, is for you to heal her,” Cardan snapped.

He regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. She was only trying to comfort him. She, too, had once been forced to watch as her beloved toed the line between life and death. Right now, though, the High King did not have the strength to feel sorry for anyone but himself.

The Bomb only nodded. Once, short and curt. She left him to his misery after that. Cardan supposed he’d probably have a lot of apologising to do to a lot of people by the end of this.

A while later, and rather belatedly, he realised he could very well just barge in there and demand to stay. Magical oath or not, he was still High King. They would still listen to him.

But maybe the Bomb had a point. Maybe it would only make him more anxious, to be in there; he did not want to impede on Jude’s progress. Maybe nothing was the most he could do.

All his life, he’d spent doing most every childish thing. He’d tugged on the tails of cats, threw tantrums when he didn’t get his way, threatened people when they offended him.

Now, Cardan sat there on the floor with his head in his hands, doing absolutely nothing, and felt more like a child than ever.

☽☽☽☽☽

Jude was a dragonfly hovering over water, dipping in and out of sleep. She was flying and then sinking and then flying again.

It went like this for a while.

She’d fall asleep in one place and drift to the surface of consciousness in another. Sometimes she felt no pain. Sometimes she felt a great deal of pain all at once. The latter would usually send her careening back into nothingness.

On occasion, she’d awaken just long enough to recognise the faces floating in and out of her vision. The Roach, with his scythe of a nose. The Ghost, with his sandy hair and silent demeanour. The Bomb, who Jude had a strange, vague feeling was blushing every time she looked at her. She even recognised a nurse or two.

Always, there were people. There was one face, however, that she did not see.

“Bomb,” Jude rasped, and the faerie’s eyes met hers. “If I die, would you tell him I hated him? Tell him, that’s why I did it.”

“What do you mean?” The Bomb asked. But Jude was already drifting again.

☽☽☽☽☽

Next Part

Last Part

Masterlist

AN: I am…so sorry. I’ll be the first to say, I am the absolute worst for telling you guys this was going to be a two-shot and then leaving this on such a cliffhanger and making you wait for a third part. Don’t hate me? The good news is, I have a lot of the last part written. The bad news is, the last part is what has been keeping me from updating-- writing it feels more and more like giving birth with each passing day.

So if you enjoyed this part, and would like to give me some writerly encouragement in the form of a comment/reblog/keyboard smash/message/ask, any and all of the above would basically be like giving me a dose of that sweet, sweet epidural and I would be forever grateful :’)

If you’d like to be updated on the next part of this Three-Shot (to come very soon), let me know and I’ll add you to the tag list! Back to the woods now. -em 🖤💫

Title Inspo: Follow You Down to the Red Oak Tree by James Vincent McMorrow

Tag List: @velarhysismine @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte @knifewifejude @clockworkgraystairs @jurdanhell @judexcardanxgreenbriar @hizqueen4life @nite0wl29 @mysweetvilllain @thesirenwashere

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perspective-series · 5 years ago

Text

Pet Perspective (12/19)

By: @arc852 and @hiddendreamer67

Warnings: Injury, fears of death

First Chapter || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

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There were a lot of things that had gone wrong in Roman’s life- this was one of them.

To clarify, the escape had been going great. Roman had managed to make his way a full block away from the apartment before it even got dark, ducking through the underbrush and carefully timing his darts out in the open. He mostly stuck to front gardens, knowing it was more covered and less likely to be inspected without anybody out for gardening today.

Down past the edge of the block, Roman had discovered an oak tree, with acorns scattered around the base. Not believing his luck, Roman also discovered a little stream of freshwater nearby as well. It was hardly a trickle to a human, but to Roman it meant everything. This could be the perfect place to set up a base, especially after he began to dig a small burrow beneath the tree roots.

Unfortunately, it was during this last task that Roman ran into trouble. He was digging long into the night, hard at work carving out a suitable home. The night made him tense; too many predators came out to prowl, looking for an easy meal. He wished he could finish faster, feeling like there were eyes on his back.

Roman tensed, realizing that feeling had never been wrong. He turned, spotting the glowing yellow eyes peering at him through the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, Roman could see the shadowy figure’s tail swishing back and forth, ready to pounce.

“...crap.” Roman cursed, dashing over the tree root and towards the brambles. He knew he had no hope of outrunning a cat, but the coverage slowed the beast down long enough that he might have a change. The creature kept meowling incessantly, swiping its paws into the bush of his most recent hiding place and breaking off some of the branches.

“Go away, you furball!” Roman screeched, dodging out of the way just in time as the claws came for him again. At this rate the whole neighborhood would be woken up. Why couldn’t Kitty of Hell just give up the chase? Time dragged on, Roman’s adrenaline soon beginning to fade as he sluggishly repeated his actions, his dodges getting slower. How long had they been at this game of cat and borrower? Minutes? Hours? It was hard to tell; all Roman knew, was that unless something changed soon, he very well might lose this time.

Lost in his thoughts, Roman was too slow and felt a sudden agonizing sensation rip through his right half as those wretched claws cut his arm and side. He yelled, shouting off every borrower curse he knew in the feline’s face, adrenaline spiked back up and he pressed himself further into the brambles that only irritated his wounds further.

The sound of faint shout caught a man’s attention and he shone his phone light near the base of a tree. It was there he saw a cat, eagerly pawing at something. As a few words reached the man’s ears, he could only assume the cat was after an escaped borrower. He had come across a few in his time. Especially since he was one to take nightly walks like this.

He shooed away the cat before kneeling down and using his phone to see if it was in fact a borrower or not.

Roman tensed, raising a hand to block out the light and noticing the human peering down at him. The borrower groaned, knowing there was no use running in this state but still feeling absolutely pathetic. He had only been gone a number of hours and was already caught again because of a stupid alley cat.

“Well, how did a little thing like you get all the way out here?” The man spoke, reaching out and grabbing the borrower in a gentle fist. He noticed the collar right away. “And looks like someone might be missing you.”

Roman just glared at him, hating how he knew that might even be true. No, no it wasn’t… Virgil would have noticed he was missing by now. He was probably furious with him and never wanted to see Roman again.

“Welp, let’s get you to the shelter so they can contact your owner.” The man said. Technically, the shelter wasn’t open but there was always someone there to take any found borrowers. The man entered and handed the borrower over before tipping his hat and leaving. The woman at the front looked the borrower over, looking closely at the collar and putting it in her notes to call it in the morning.

“Well, looks like you got into quite the fight.” The woman mused, noticing the injuries.

“It was a stray cat.” Roman grumbled, knowing the shelter’s process by now. Hopefully that mangy calico didn’t have any sort of disease.

The woman hummed and took Roman into the back real quick. She wasn’t the resident vet so all she could do was wrap the injury up to the best of her ability. “There we go, hopefully that will last until morning.” She then took him into the main area and set him up in his own cage. “Alright, we’ll call your owner in the morning.” And with that, she left.

Roman sunk to the floor, putting his head between his knees. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. He knew Virgil would react the same as the others, getting pissed over the phone and disowning him on the spot. Nobody wanted a borrower who slipped away, it was a breach of trust and too much trouble. More specifically, nobody wanted him.

Why hadn’t he just stayed put? Virgil had been right, Roman had a good thing going there. Even if it was just a few days, Roman had fun. Maybe it was because he got away so fast that Roman still held the human in such a positive light (humans were often nicer the first week or so), but somehow Roman knew that on the list of ‘owners he didn’t completely despise’ Virgil had somehow wriggled his way to the top.

Roman didn’t know how to feel about that, especially since he would likely never see Virgil again.

------------------------------------------------

Patton came down the stairs bright and early to see Virgil passed out on the couch. He frowned and already knew what Virgil had been up to for most, if not all, night. He sighed and decided to let Virgil sleep as he went into the kitchen.

However, that was when Virgil’s phone went off, jarring him awake. He blinked down at the unfamiliar number before answering it. “‘Lo?” He said, still tired.

“Is this Virgil Storm?” The voice asked.

“Yeah, this is him. What’s this about?” If this was another scam thing…

“I am Holly Beckett of the Borrower Shelter here in town and a borrower by the name of Roman was just dropped off here last night.” Virgil shot up, suddenly wide awake.

“You have Roman?” As soon as he got the confirmation, he was already putting on his shoes. “I’ll be right there!” He exclaimed, wasting no time as he hung up and grabbed his keys.

Patton, hearing Virgil yell, had come out of the kitchen. “Roman was found?”

Virgil nodded. “I’ll be back.” He said before rushing out the door.

Virgil burst through the shelter door, going up to the front desk as he panted. “I’m...Virgil Storm. I’m here for Roman.” He said through breaths.

“Of course, he’s in there in cage A7.” She handed him the keys and Virgil took them before going into the room. His eyes landed on the cage-and Roman-almost immediately.

“Roman!”

Roman jolted, painfully torn from his existential musing by a very familiar voice. He blinked, looking up and trying to comprehend what he was seeing. Virgil was here?

But… oh god, this was a horrible thing, right? Roman had never had to face the consequences of his actions before. Virgil must be furious with him if he came all this way. Was he going to beat him up or something? Would the shelter let him do that? Probably, if he hadn’t been officially disowned yet. In his fear Roman scooted back, clutching the traitorous tag that had gotten him into this mess. It was always better on the times when he was recaptured after he had removed the collar.

“Oh my gosh, you’re here! You’re okay.” Virgil fiddled with the lock before opening the door and gently grabbing Roman. He briefly held him to his chest, just taking a moment to calm his nerves and tell himself that Roman is okay. He’s here and he’s safe.

Roman let out a tense gasp of air, cringing as his injuries were jostled. His mind felt like it was short-circuiting, trying to figure out just what game Virgil was playing. Was he acting nice for the shelter workers? Was… was he going to actually take Roman back?

Oh, Roman was definitely in trouble.

Virgil pulled Roman away, looking him over. His eyes widened when he got a good look at the mess of bandages. “What happened?” He asked softly, hovering a finger over it.

Roman grimaced. Great- now Virgil was going to make fun of him for not being able to take on a cat of all things. Cats were quite a formidable foe, but humans often saw them as cute little furballs rather than the demons Roman knew.

“A...cat found me first.” Roman was hesitant to explain, confused about how soft Virgil’s concern was; the shelter workers weren’t going to hear him at that volume.

Virgil’s eyes widened. “A cat.” Virgil hissed out. That wasn’t good, especially if it had been a stray. He probably needed to set up an appointment with a vet…

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of that. Get you properly bandaged and looked at. But first, we’re going home, okay?” Virgil said, voice still gentle. But as his panic was leaving him, a new emotion was growing bigger. Betrayal. Roman had lied after all...and Virgil was a bit upset over it.

But he could deal with that later. Right now, he just wanted to focus on getting Roman home.

“Seriously?” Roman said incredulously, a wave of surprise and fear overcoming him all at once. This had never happened before. Roman didn’t have a plan for this, and that made him very, very nervous.

Virgil looked down at Roman and remembered back to what he had been told. “I told you Roman. The cycle ends here, with me. We’re going home.” And having a nice, long talk, Virgil thought as he started out of the shelter, nodding at the woman in the front before he left.

Roman felt such conflicting feelings inside his chest, his face turning ashen. There was a small spark of something positive in him, a little light beam that couldn’t help but be amazed that Virgil had told the truth. Virgil wanted him…. Of course, the fact that Virgil most likely wanted him back now so that Virgil could kill him was putting a bit of a damper on Roman’s revelation.

What would Virgil do? Take away his things? Make him play games the way he loathed? Toss him around and taunt him about all the secrets he had so foolishly spilled? How was he ever going to escape again? Virgil would certainly become the world’s strictest owner, keeping Roman on a short leash. Oh geez, what if he really did get a leash? Roman hated those more than he hated collars because they put a direct limit on his freedom.

And then, suppose Roman did get free. The second he ended up back at the shelter, Virgil would be there to pick him up and punish him again. Over and over. He knew now that Virgil was just as stubborn as himself, and though the cycle of new owners might have ended… a new cycle might be beginning.

Virgil was silent the rest of the way home, holding Roman against his chest. He pushed the door open and noticed Patton and Logan sat down eating breakfast. Patton perked up when he saw Roman in Virgil’s hands. “Oh Roman! I’m so glad you’re okay.” Patton said, smiling softly.

“For the most part.” Virgil said. “He got a little roughed up by a cat before he was found but he’ll be fine.” He explained. Patton’s eyes widened.

“Oh, you poor kiddo…” He couldn’t imagine how terrifying that must have been.

Logan felt his back muscles tense, observing the way Roman’s eyes darted around similar to a caged animal. It was certainly apparent Roman was not happy to be here, despite the fact that leaving seemed to have resulted in injury.

“Yeah.” Virgil agreed. “I’m gonna go upstairs.” He looked down and noticed the full breakfast Patton had made. He bit his lip. “Uh, could you-”

“I’ll save you two some, don’t worry.” Patton grinned and Virgil sent him a grateful one in return.

“Thanks Pat.” And with that, he walked up the stairs. He stopped by the bathroom to grab the first aid kit and then to his room. He shut the door behind him before gently setting Roman down.

“Alright, first things first.” Virgil opened up the kit. “Let’s fix up that wound a bit better.”

“I- it’s fine.” Roman lied, playing with the edge of the bandage.

“Come on, Roman.” Virgil sighed. He cut up a piece of gauze and took out the lotion. “We need to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

“Pretty sure if it’s going to be infected, it already is.” Roman almost attempted humor. “Cat claws aren’t exactly sanitary.”

Virgil frowned. “We’ll have to schedule a vet visit then.” He said more to himself. He reached forward and gently started undoing the bandages already around Roman.

Roman shuddered. A vet appointment? He loathed the vet. It was always so demeaning, with the veterinarians just forcing him to do things instead of asking him to move himself. And whenever something was wrong the humans would just discuss it over his head like he wasn’t even there, not letting Roman have a say in his own health.

Virgil discarded the old bandages before placing a dab of the ointment on his finger. “Okay, this might sting a little.” He warned before gently applying it to Roman’s side.

“Ow!” Roman jerked away from the touch with a hiss. “You said a little.”

Virgil winced. “Sorry, sorry but I’ve gotten rub this in.” He said, doing just that. “There, now just gotta bandage you back up.” He took the gauze he cut up and started to wrap it around Roman.

Roman expected the bandages to be pulled taunt, a clear indicator of Virgil’s wrath. He sucked in his breath, preparing, and was surprised when the bandages were applied almost delicately. Clearly, whatever Virgil wanted with him, Roman still had to be in good health. Not exactly the brightest of thoughts.

“All done.” Virgil said, taking his hands away. The bandages stayed in place and he then busied himself with putting everything away and closing the first aid kit.

He turned to look at Roman, a mixture of feelings coming up now that he was no longer distracted. He took in a deep breath. “Roman...we need to talk about this.”

Uh oh. Roman shifted on his feet, trying to decide if it was better or worse to look Virgil in the eye. He felt like a coward when he looked away so Roman forced himself to meet Virgil’s gaze, deciding that this was definitely worse. He tried to make out what was happening in the human’s head, but the eyes gave no hints.

“I just...I don’t understand. I-I thought we were bonding. Having fun. Was that all just an act? Were you just lying to me? Was everything you told me a lie?” Virgil asked, his feelings rising with each question until he was pulling at his hair as he desperately looked at Roman for the answers.

“No!” Roman shrunk in on himself, feeling scared and guilty and confused. “No, I assure you, I was not lying. Wait, that’s a lie, because I was lying about the promising to not escape...obviously.”

Well, Virgil was glad that everything else was true, like Roman’s past. But he still had questions. “...Why? I thought we were doing better. I thought…” Virgil ran a hand through his hair. “I thought we were getting along.”

“Well, ah, we… were, I suppose.” Roman rubbed the back of his neck. “In a way, at least. I was having fun, I’ll admit.”

“Then why did you still escape.” Virgil asked softly. “I mean, do you know how worried I was! I got maybe an hour of sleep last night because I spend the whole night looking for you!” Virgil exclaimed a bit louder than he probably should have this close to the borrower.

Roman frowned, confused by this new piece of information. He had definitely escaped too early, then, if Virgil was so concerned. Roman hadn’t let the appeal of a new borrower wear off.

“I told you, I don’t want a ‘not-so-bad’ experience.” Roman huffed, crossing his arms and trying to ignore the pit in his stomach.

“Well then tell me what I can do to make it great. Tell me how I can be better. I want you to be happy here, Roman. I...I want you to like me.” Virgil admitted, looking away.

“I know!” Roman snapped, channeling all his confusing emotions into anger as he watched Virgil mope. This, at least, felt familiar. “I know you do, I get it, you’re one of the rare humans who actually cares about what I think, but you still don’t care about anything that matters! I don’t care who it’s with, I don’t want to be caged!”

Roman grabbed at the tag of his collar, frustrated tears coming to his eyes. “I don’t want to be collared! I don’t want to be owned! I’m my own person with my own life and I’m sick and tired of humans making my decisions for me for your own selfish wants.”

Virgil flinched back, looking back at Roman with wide eyes. He felt his heart beat fast as he furrowed his eyebrows and took in everything that Roman said. His words struck a chord in him and Virgil realized that...maybe he had known all along? And he had just ignored it?

Virgil didn’t know what was worse.

“Roman...I…” His voice trailed off. He had no idea what to say to something like that. “I...didn’t know…” Virgil winced. Yeah, that was the absolute wrong thing to say.

“Stop it.” Roman scowled, gesturing wildly to all of Virgil. “Stop...that. Why are you sulking? Stop playing around. I know you must be absolutely furious with me, so- so stop playing the victim and just get mad already.”

Now Virgil was even more confused. “Roman...I’m not mad. I won’t lie and say I’m not upset but-but…” Virgil’s eyes widened as he seemed to realize what Roman was thinking. “Roman, I’m not going to punish you.”

“What?” Roman squinted, his heart still racing and his stomach still feeling like a rock. What was happening? Roman didn’t understand why he was feeling all these conflicting emotions, and it only made him more frustrated. Despite not wanting to be punished, Roman couldn’t help but press further. “Why not? Why am I… why’d you take me back, then?”

Virgil sighed. “Because I really do want you Roman. I want you to have a good life and I don’t trust anyone else to give it to you. What? Even after everything I said before, you still thought I wouldn’t come back for you?”

Roman took a shuddering breath, cautiously wrapping his arms around his meager frame. “I… I mean, you would have said anything to calm me down. I haven’t known you for long, and I myself was lying about running. I had no reason to trust you, and it’s easy to make those claims. It’s another thing to actually act on them.”

“I...I guess you do have a good point.” Virgil furrowed his brows again, deep in thought. “I suppose we...did just meet each other, huh? And, I’ve been acting like all this is normal and everything when it really isn’t…” Virgil let out a long sigh.

“Wait, like what’s all normal?” Roman’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“This. You, being here. Living here. Being...trapped here.” Virgil looked down and shifted in his seat. “Having to act like someone you aren’t and hide your feelings because you’re scared something will happen to you…” He was starting to understand where Roman was coming from.

Roman froze, so caught off guard that he could only utter a single word. “...what?”

Virgil looked at Roman sadly. “You’re right. You didn’t know me before you were forced to live here. Just like with all your other...owners. You’ve been forced to listen to me because I’m so much bigger than you and the world we live in deemed you...deemed you as pets.” He looked Roman over, his eyes catching the collar around Roman’s neck and he barked out a humorless laugh. “I even collared you...like some animal…”

“Yes?” Roman glanced down at the collar, before raising an eyebrow at Virgil. Had the human gone mad? He seemed to be teetering on the edge of hysterical. “Are you gloating or something?”

Virgil shook his head. “No...just having a mental breakdown, but it’s fine. I think I needed this.” He took in a deep breath. “Roman...do you want me to take the collar off of you?” He offered.

“Why?” Roman asked, looking the human up and down with a wary eye. For one, Roman was still concerned for Virgil’s mental state. But for another, Roman didn’t particularly like the idea of being taunted with freedom when he knew the collar would just come back on.

Virgil bit his lip, knowing Roman was still wary. Which, he had good reason to be. Virgil couldn’t blame him. He was suddenly struck with an earlier memory and well...it had worked that time. Maybe it would here too. “Because I’m going to burn it.”

#pet perspective #perspective series #human!virgil #human!patton #borrower!logan #borrower!roman #part 12

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flybienby · 5 years ago

Text

Skurdulka The Cryptid

A Nonbinary Scary Story

warning: strong language Reading time: 6 minutes

Part I

Gritting my teeth, I hurled a rock at the dilapidated mansion without bothering to aim. The shattering glass that rewarded my throw did nothing for the anger streaking through my veins.

“Asshole.” Crouching down and hunting for another rock, I ran my sleeve over the stinging tears escaping my eyes. “Asshole!”

Why was I the one upset? I should’ve hurled a fucking rock at that douchebag that’d snatched up my best friend. That would’ve at least shown him a didn’t throw like a girl.

Photo by Matthew T Rader on Unsplash

“I can throw better than him,” I quietly seethed. “Better than either of them.”

I knew I shouldn’t have let him get to me. Stevie was an asshole. The center of the fucking universe, so of course he couldn’t understand anybody the slightest bit different from him. And I might’ve dealt with that. Stevie had always been an asshole to me. But Ash. He just stood there. Didn’t say a fucking word.

“Best friend.” I scoffed harshly, prying another rock from the cold earth. “Best friend--” I pulled a hard throw back, aiming for the top window on the highest tower of the mansion “--my--” I threw it. An instant later, and another terrible shatter. “--dick!”

So you’re—what? Some trans-masculine Apache helicopter?

Stevie’s sneering smile spiraled back to me, lighting fire through my shaking fists all over again. “Dickhead.” It wasn't that hard to get. Non-binary. Sam Smith and Jonathan Van Ness and countless others were all non-binary—and so was I. But Stevie didn’t try to get it because he didn’t want to. I didn’t even ask him to use they/them—all I wanted from him was to be left alone. But that would never happen as long as Ash was obsessed with him.

Ash never gave me shit about it. He was the first one to call me they. They don’t like peanuts. That’s what it was. Never had a sentence about peanuts meant so much in the history of the world. Ash knew how important it was to be comfortable in your own skin. He’d fought for it every day for as long as I’d known him. Ash was never Ashleigh. He said his mom felt like Ashleigh died, but I knew the truth. There never was such a person. There was always just Ash.

Ash knew how important it was to be truly seen—for who you really were—by everyone. The people close to you most of all.

I thought Ash would always be on my side. Then he started liking Stevie.

A fierce gust rattled through the surrounding forest, a dying sigh clattering dry leaves like bones. Crossing my arms over my chest, I held in a shiver. It was Halloween—I should’ve been at Ash’s house, trading him my Smarties for his peanut butter cups, not freezing my ass off throwing rocks at Skurdulka’s house.

“I hope you’re happy.” Looking up at the decrepit old building, I silently cursed Ash. A part of me understood, the rest of me wished Ash wasn’t such a fucking coward. I gritted my teeth. When I thought about it, it seemed like some kind of shitty rock-paper-scissors game. Or maybe a really backwards love triangle. Stevie was gay. For Stevie to like Ash back, there could be no doubt that Ash was a boy. And then there was me, non-binary—the capital of the Gender Gray Area.

So, of course, when Stevie said I identified as a ‘trans-masculine Apache helicopter’ (what a prick) Ash was utterly silent.

“Assholes.” I felt across the wet, cold grass and dirt for another rock. Ash was too good for Stevie anyway. Stevie wasn’t even good-looking and he was a jerk. He ripped people to shreds like it was his favorite hobby. It was surely the only thing he was good at. He was the school drama star, but he couldn’t act for shit—he just shouted every line.

Why did Ash need to convince Stevie he was a boy? And why was that more important than... well... me?

Just as I dug my dirty nails under another rock, I started, almost falling over. The matted weeds and bramble behind me rustled. Something was in there. Something big.

Photo by Yuri_B on Pixabay

Straightening, I gripped the rock tight and searched the shadows underneath the trees. A dark shape emerged, the weeds and shadows sliding off its head, then its shoulders—an enormous black dog.

It stood still on the edge of the clearing, staring at me. It’s size made my heart start pounding—I’d never seen a dog that big��but it was its eyes that made my breath stop. Red eyes.

I couldn’t think of a dog—or any animal—I’d ever seen with red eyes. Was it rabid? I drew a shaky breath. “What the f-fuck are you?” My voice caught in my suddenly dry throat. “The Grim?” A strangled laugh escaped me.

The dog didn’t move. It didn’t blink. It just stood there. Staring.

“Go on.” I cleared my throat. “Go on!” I waved a hand. I thought about throwing the rock, but held it. Maybe the dog was some kind of messed up, but it still didn’t seem right to throw rocks at it.

The dog didn’t move.

“What do you want? You want f-food?” The word caught when I realized its food would’ve meant me. It certainly wasn’t interested in fun-sized Skittles. “I don’t have any food. Go on. Go home.”

It’s deep bark made me start back. The giant dog advanced, cutting the quiet forest with loud, angry barks.

Shit. Shit! I stumbled backwards over my pillowcase of Halloween candy and almost tripped over my mask and wig. The dog walked slowly forward, pausing only to bark.

“Fuck off!” I pulled back my arm to throw the rock. The dog stopped, a deep growl emanating from its bared teeth.

My spine froze. It wasn’t a normal dog growl. It was a deep, guttural sound, like a bear would’ve had.

“Shit!” Throwing the rock, I turned and ran, sprinting around the trees and bushes towards the almost-caved-in porch around Skurdulka’s house. Snarling barks told me the dog was right behind me. Jumping over a pile of trash and lumber at the edge of the house, I reached the porch and took another leap over the three stairs, landing straight on the doorstep. The rotted wood cracked, but didn’t break, and I hurled myself towards the door. Miraculously, it wasn’t locked. Skidding to a stop inside the house, I spun around and threw my back against the door, muffling the furious barks now safely on the other side.

Panting and bracing myself firmly against the door, I waited for heavy paws scratching against the other side. But nothing came. The barking stopped.

Swallowing, I tried to listen for paws over the sound of my pulse thundering in my ears. Something scraped against the porch. My shoulders tightened and my hand instinctively flew to the door handle when something tapped against it. The door handle gave a shiver, then a loud, decisive, click. After a moment of silence, the boards creaked, and something stepped down the stairs.

But there was something strange. It didn’t sound like the clatter of a dog’s paws. It was steady, even. Like a person’s footsteps.

haunted house with graffiti - Photo by Florian Olivo on Unsplash

For at least a minute, I stood, rooted to the spot. I couldn’t go outside and face that dog again. But I was in Skurdulka’s house. No one went in Skurdulka’s house in the daytime, much less at night, on Halloween. Blinking, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, picking out amorphous outlines everywhere. Thin shafts of moonlight crept through the dusty windows at the back, revealing a curving staircase, broken banister and an upper floor. A chandelier hung askew overhead like a giant, hanging bat, barely peeking out of the blackness blanketing the ceiling. To my right and left were open doorways. I could make out the crumpled carpeting leading to each, but beyond was yawning darkness. The world could’ve ended where that carpet ended, and no one would have known.

Nope. Nope, nope, fucking nope. There was no way in hell I was spending one more instant in this creepfest. Deciding I’d rather get my foot devoured by a real, living dog with rabies than get my soul sucked out by an immortal ghoul, I turned at pulled at the door handle.

It didn’t move.

Icy panic streaked up my spine. I twisted hard in every direction, pulling and wrenching, but the knob wouldn't move. The door shuddered, but refused to give.

Fuck. It’s locked.

My heartbeat raced. I was trapped in Skurdulka’s house. The most haunted fucking location in the state. I tried to calm down. I just have to find another way out. It’s just a house. It’s just a dark, creepy house. Man up. There’s nothing here.

Looking into the mansion’s dark innards, I almost believed my calming mantra. But then something struck me; the door had opened a moment ago. Now it was locked. Dogs couldn’t lock doors. So who—or what—locked the door?

It can’t be locked. It’s just stuck. Just really, really stuck. That had to be it. Because dogs can’t lock doors and there’s no one else around. No one.

With my pulse thundering in my ears, I fumbled for my smartphone. Throwing darting glances around me, I tried to look everywhere at once while I looked for my flashlight app. Clicking it on, the blue-white light beam shook in my hand.

It’s just a house. Don’t be a chickenshit. Just find another way out. And sprint your stupid ass all the way home.

Swallowing hard, I took small, shuffling steps into the foyer. Up the stairs, there were three large, cracked windows along the hallway. They looked like they might’ve been stained glass, painting the white moonlight in pink, blue and purple where it shined through the dust. I thought about leaving through those windows, but that was the second story, and that was not a jump I wanted to make.

On my right, my flashlight revealed a broken end table, what looked like piles of rubble and trash and, in the corner, oddly enough,—I squinted to look closer—a grand piano. The walls were cracked and the windows were boarded up, but the piano looked strangely… pristine.

Well. I swallowed hard. Glad that’s not creepy.

I turned the beam to the left. It looked like it might’ve been a sitting room once, but the big, curving sofa had caved in, and something had eaten holes in the fabric. The coffee table was demolished. Papers and shards of something littered the floor. Looking closer, I caught my breath. The windows were boarded up there as well, but one was missing two boards. Just enough for me to crawl the hell out of here.

Just get to the window and leave. There’s nothing in the house. Just get to the window and leave. I repeated that in my head as I shuffled, as quietly as possible, across the foyer, into the next room.

Floorboards creaked upstairs.

I froze. Slow footsteps moved above me, thunk, thunk, thunk. A door creaked open. It sounded close, like it came from the upper hallway in the foyer. Thunk… creak… thunk, thunk. Footsteps, loud, on the stairs.

Shit! Adrenaline coursing through me, I bolted for the window. The space at the bottom, underneath the splintering boards, wasn’t big enough for me to fit through. Taking hold of the lowest board, I pulled hard, trying desperately to wrench it from the wall. The rusty nails loosened, but not enough.

Behind me, something growled.

With the phone shaking in my hand, I slowly turned. I knew before I turned around what would be standing there. Skurdulka.

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Author’s note; thanks for reading! My NaNoWriMo goal is to finish this story in a month and focus on the nonbinary hero, the narrator, and nonbinary “villain” Skurdulka. Stop by next Sunday night Nov 17 for part II ! Sidenote; I’d love to feature illustrations from nonbinary artists and I’ll pay! Shoot me a message if you’re interested! New artists welcome and encouraged!

#nonbinary #nonbinaryfiction #nonbinary writers #lgbtq fiction #genderqueer #genderqueer fiction #lgbtq writers #nanowrimo #ya horror #enby stuff #trans enby #enby boy #bigender #polygender

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mordessathemad · 8 years ago

Text

The Great White Witch Excerpt #2: Mushroom

About halfway down and upon the fifth platform, I began to regret not having worn my boots. My feet had been pin-cushioned by splinters, leaving small and thin traces of blood wherever I put them. Every time I attracted a new hitchhike, or stepped in the wrong place, I shrieked and reflexively dropped the skirt to cover my mouth with both hands, hoping I hadn't woken the elder above. I stopped to rest and pluck out the bits, they weren't little bee-sting sized splinters either, some were as thick as my finger- pierced through and embedded in the callused pads. Looking down from the platform, a grin grew as I saw how much progress was made. I couldn't wait to bound and sift my feet in the squishy mud below.

Two hours later, following the color and shapes of petals that Tsajasuna had described on the list, I returned to the base step with an assortment of flowers, weeds, roots and fungi, eggs, small game that I'd caught bare-clawed, some tricky butterflies, insects, kindling, shells, and even a few of the mud-covered coins that fell down the mountain clutched in my arms. Most of the reagents were easy pickings, just aside the cobbled roads or hidden betwixt brambles and bushes, quite fortunately. This did, however- become fairly burdensome, the pile was well over my head and with every step something I couldn't see fell, relief was in order. At the first platform, where a pile of empty rucksacks and a beaten crate had settled, I checked the list once more to confirm that all items were accounted for. Taking one of the sacks, I glanced back and forth between Tsajasuna's squiggles and each reagent that I dropped in, this went on for at least an hour.

I was missing something. A glowing mushroom, if I recall correctly. Everyone knows, that if a plant glows, it likely grows in a cave. By chance, whilst collecting the other plants, I'd caught wind of the three paths that lead around the house. We are actually placed between a fork in the road from Rorikstead, I wonder if Tsajasuna deliberately did that to attract more people... winds from the south brought smells and unpleasant memories of Mr. Mutton Chops, the road east - which ended abruptly at a small green lake - had the whistling of a cave. An ungodly scent that makes me gag at its slightest trace discharges from the left and further north. I have only been down the western trail once, and never wish to again. Knowing the likelihood of gashing my feet on jagged stones or other petrous protrusions in the cave, I needed my boots. After tying a string to the now bulging sack's neck to seal it, I took a deep breath and hauled it up the flights with one hand holding up my skirt. Thankful for the rug on the last platform, I collapsed upon it, again, out of breath. Then lugged up the last few logs to Hilltop House's door, and entered as quiet and frightened as a mouse, readying an excuse.

Drafts of premonition whipped my fur. She was still sleeping, incessantly moving her mouth, but more fluidly this time in a way that conveyed conversation. Do I do that? Nadir had told me once that I squeak in my sleep, but never mentioned that I talked or tossed. For a man that had tried to steal my life, he was awfully nice, a bit too feeble for the outdoors though. Deciding it best to just leave her alone, I crept to my boots, cursing the creaking planks, and nabbed them with wide unyielding eyes trained on the elder's upper half, well away from the lower. On one leg, I hopped around attempting to strap on my boot. Without warning, Tsajasuna violently burst out in a harrowing laughter that made me jump, lose my balance, and sprawl out on the floor in a scurry toward the door. She was sat up, hands and arms buckled at her side, her mouth unhinged as the thunderous cackles repeatedly split the air. Then, without any indication whatsoever, stopped and fell asleep again with a short snort. By then, I was fast down the steps with one boot in-hand and the other loosely worn, leaving the sack inside. I still have no explanation for why she does this, as often as it comes, only that it falls under the demeanor enigma aforementioned. Perhaps it's some kind of mental ague, or dare I go so far to infer, that maybe it is a darker, more aberrant conniving with another apparitional entity or being not of the waking world. Since the moment she truly wakes, compulsion and obsession make their due, a sudden revelation, and the sage then enthusiastically writes in a foreign script of thick symbols for many hours, sometimes days. Tsajasuna never speaks to me during these spells, nor will she eat, but she always mutters something irrationally disjointed at the pages. Was it the voice she talked to? I can never read her lips, because of the fangs, but also because she seemed to be speaking a different language entirely.

Such a thought is melodramatic though, it would be best to just leave Big Hat to her somnambulism. I have already asked what she sees or is doing in her dreams, but all she responds with is stare at me, frightened, her mouth quivering with temptation as if it were on the verge saying something that would change how everything should be viewed, and walks away nervously with her hands cupped. It is an unspeakable matter, I guess. I'd hate to have people spy upon my silly dreams too, so I understand. They're never easy to explain.

Steering clear the of the west road, I went east and followed the bumpy path until I stood on the black shore of green lake. Supposedly it's an offshoot of Karth River, per the map me and Veitizion had gone over in full candlelight some moons ago. Continuing left along the muddy shore and pricking my ears up to trace the cave's whistling, I happened upon an abandoned camp. There were two very warm and inviting tents, and a campfire that seemed to ebb and flow as if it had lived mere moments ago, smoking great grey puffs and its blackened logs layered upon pulsating but quelled coals. Whomever it belonged to, they were up in a hurry. They left practically everything from their bedrolls to grime-covered utensils, and many, many bottles of what was labeled "K's MEAD". Someone had also left their roughly-carved pipe upright upon a box between the tents too, still producing a genteel coil of charred tobacco. The longer I looked at the things, the more I felt that I didn't belong, and chose that if they failed to return by the time I found the glowing mushroom, perhaps I'd take a plate or some of the salt bowls left by the fire.

Just behind the camp, a trail lead upwards into a towering cliff-face and a stream trickled off to its left, there the whistling was loudest. Wherever the campers had gone, it was not there, the only prints that went that path appeared ages old, aside from the occasional rabbit or vole. One peculiar thing about them was that there was only one set, and like those on Tsajasuna's steps, never pointed back. Aside from mine.

Finally, at the trail's end, a crevice that seemed more like a crack because of its tenuity spoke to me. A strong odor of dank vegetation, wet stone, and something painfully sour respired from the narrow gap that made my nose wrinkle. The splish splosh of the stream impeded my ability to hear anything from outside. Too impatient to wait for my fur to settle, and with my tail twitching in disagreement, I climbed into the impenetrable dark.

Aphotic and horny mazes lie ahead after a seemingly endless trudge downwards, hardly traversable as was ordained by the slippery stones which no definite footfall may make purchase, and the black spiked formations that rose up betwixt them. Little holes, bat dens, and body-sized apertures dotted the walls. To say that the cramped ingress was entirely lightless, would be a lie, for round a bend at the passage's end a teal phosphorescence pulsated. And so became my destination. Shimmying under and over, between and beside the protrusions was a perplexity. My boots were terribly worn on the bottom, and aided me little in terms of traction, so I did, miraculously, break through some of the stalactites whilst inevitably slipping - resulting in a few indistinct cuts and bruises to my face. I'm just glad I never fell upon the stalagmites, though I did come distressingly close at one point. Before the bend, the stream that trickled down with me ran under a pale and bloated body that had to be passed. It was impossible to tell how long it'd been there, but with what my eyes could manage- bright red cuts and gashes covered its entire ragged body, its ears were missing as were a few fingers, and they all seemingly weren't done by stone. Too neat and done parallel in sets of three to four. No, they weren't by any animal either, none of the size could fit here. Unsure if it was a warning or simply forgotten, I stepped over the unfortunate shape and continued shifting forward, watching as darkness rapidly swallowed the faceless thing behind me.

Seven tendrilous toadstools calmly breathed a faint light before me. They were by no means small, so I ripped out only the largest, which was about the size of my head. It was fun to squeeze, firm and spongy. My mind went back to the cuts of the pale blooded man, and the thought lingered with an unnerving chill. I had seen those kinds of cuts before, but strained to remember where. With the mushroom in my hands, I shook the thought away, the real issue soon became clear; how do I get it out? The robe was tricky enough to work around, with the mushroom my width doubled, and the skirt could not be held. Turning back to the mushroom cluster, I had hoped to find one of smaller size. Instead, I met the eyeless face of another pale thing. Then, from the cracks and holes, waves upon waves of oversized centipedes and a forgotten race poured.

Ghoulish abominations with taut translucent skin that mimics pallor, and arms so unnaturally slender their knuckles drag. Some seemed horribly maimed, missing hands, arms, and a few crawled mechanically across the stones with one or no legs at all. This awful, maddening elision of gurgling and other inhuman disquietude bled my ears, so many of the awkward shapes clambered into the passage that the entrance could no longer be seen. Speaking of seen, the one whom I'd met face to face with had puffy red and squeezed flesh where one's eyes should be, and whose colorless gape had begun to bare teeth shaped like those of a slaughterfish; countless and demonically confused in length, sent out a harrowing alarm. Stiff as a stump, and keeping my tail tucked, provoked breath that reeked of rotting fish blasted my neck as it inspected me. Before I had time to panic, the sudden memory of Nisrrina's bestiary rushed to my mind, as did the pain of being bitten. Flame flickered again at my fingertips, illuminating the hoard and finally giving them color. Much like Mr. Muttonchops, the Falmer sunken gum-deep in my shoulder exploded fantastically within my hand. The others, blind and unused to its intensity, shied away from the light. I clutched the bite, still holding the mushroom, and heard the troglofaunal flesh slap against the rocks towards me as the light vanished. Panic often results in stupid decisions, but seeing the subterranean species recede gave me an idea. The thought of Tsajasuna's fireplace. Subsequently, surge after surge of flame burst forth from both my hands, licking the walls dry and blackening the capricious flesh before me. I will not die in the cold and dark, in a place forbidden and forgotten, damned and decayed, in a place where no light shines, I shall be the sun or its harbinger!

Laughing madly, and bleeding buckets from my shoulder through the robe, I said this. The words did not feel as though they were my own. What remained of the Falmer scurried toward the entrance, and had somehow broadened the crevice with their flailing. With the ground dry and piled with charred embodiments of fear, I picked up my mushroom and made my way out, whipping flame at any who tried to run back from the sunlight. The smell was awful, and the smoke stung my eyes, how lucky they were that neither sense was in their possession. As a matter of fact, quite a few had escaped the cave. Some had stopped dead, clutching the slits on their face in the sun. The others drowned, blindly leaping into the green lake and snuffing their flames, but ultimately unable to swim. Unfortunately for its owners, they had crashed through the campsite, trampling the tents, kicking pots, smashing bottles, and snapping the intricately carved pipe set neatly upon the box. Worse than the sight of that, some time before I emerged from that charred realm, they had returned. I was so exhausted, coughing and gasping for breath that I hadn't noticed the crouched red hue until I stood at the trail's beginning. Not the smoldering logs, but a bush woman.

With bow of twisted yew slung over her shoulder, and a furred quiver strapped to her ill-fit belt, the fire lady wore a stitched leather vest that seemed two sizes too small for her, a pair of loose rawhide trousers that were only held up by her peachy hips, and a sweat-stained green bandana rounded her head beneath a free-flowing shoulder-length mane, braided widely at the back. Picking further through the wreckage, she grew more and more red with each passing moment and began to steam loudly. By the way she was built, how she carried herself in a slightly tottered walk, the double-edged axe amulet that jounced at her neck, and the elk she'd mightily carried in alone, her Nordic descent was quite clear, and frightened me terribly.

Fear had taken such a strong hold of all my senses, that I'd not noticed the old man staring at me from a tail-length's away. He too had red fiery hair tied back into a high pony-tail, and long chin whiskers with a knot at the end, but they had dulled to a more brownish color, and his yellowing face was drenched with wrinkles. An elf, no doubt, he was incredibly short. Not exactly my height, but I did not have to look far up to meet his worried gaze with my own. He seemed far friendlier than the Nord, so I pleaded to him that it was an honest mistake, repeatedly apologizing since I lacked anything else to offer. The little man didn't seem to be listening, he just kept glancing over his shoulder at the girl with a profuse sweat beginning to bead then back to me. He didn't even bother to look past me at the cove, which now billowed foul black smoke to the clouds. Next, he began flailing his arms and swinging them sideways, gritting his tall teeth so hard I grew concerned that he might actually break them. He was saying something. I stopped fumbling my apologies and leaned closer to hear him, and he did too, a hurried and hoarse whisper came from his cracked lips. A singular command that could move an entire town, and there I was, oblivious to the wise warning that entire time. If only I had understood it earlier, if only I had fled from him at first sight like he wanted, then much suffering could have been saved that day.

"RUN"

Just then, the fire lady cried a siren of war. Within an instant her bow was nocked with a missile aimed at my neck and released. She had such pretty blue eyes. The old man was surprisingly quick, and pushed me out of a shot that should have landed true, denying the hunter her kill. I broke into a sprint to whatever direction I thought the house was, then tripped over the skirt at a highly inconvenient time; skipping over the slippery stones of a shallow creek that separated the camp from my east road home. Another arrow whistled in the distance. A sharp pain that made me lose grip of the mushroom shot through my side, and the beast came weaving and light-footed from behind, her breathing excited and teeming with rage. All that went through my mind was this new wonder, I had never been struck there, my armor always protected me from such situations, covering everything from my thighs up to my neck in a steel shell. Gods did it hurt.

The bite in my shoulder did not have this stunning effect, though it was where armor usually insured, a result of Ra's numerous wake-ups. If it did, the predicament before would have ended in a bewildered death. I should probably thank her for that if she ever returns, but really don't want to, because I know she'll never stop doing it at the first sign of appreciation. Or worse, acceptance.

A flame burst into my hand and cast an orange light over my face, I stared at it, unblinking. Did I really need to kill these people? I deserved an arrow in my side or arm for ruining their camp, that's for certain, but what if the next shot sent me to the Jester’s Realm? I couldn't go back there, and these weren't my friends, I refuted to myself. My mind was made up. Laying in the mud for as long as it took her to get there, I concealed the flame and played dead, a surge ready to share. Another arrow nocked, the string stretched to its limit.

What a fool I was.

It punctured the earth beside me, sending a small shower of dirt into my face. An unexpected stamping and shouting disturbed the ground behind me. "Dad, what are you doing!? Let me go!"

Dad?

"GO, lil’ khajiit, can't hold this young'un for long!"

I snatched the mushroom and winced as I got to my feet. Looking back, I could see the Nord squirming in the arms of the little old man, his face flush with impatience and struggle. Is this what parents do? Hold back children from doing what they want, even as adults? I must be quite fortunate.

Hobbling away with the extra limb was an excruciating task, and took a tremendous amount of energy to go so far as to lose the fire manes' sight. Adrenaline was waning, as was my vision and steadiness of breath. Not a moment longer I felt very sleepy and capriciously cold. The hilltop house was within sight, perched proudly upon its pointy rock, but still very far. A blurry thought of Tsajasuna teaching me how to make sparks sprinkle from my fingertips made me smile, a dream. My entire left side felt very wet. And that is all I remember before collapsing to my knees.

Figured I should probably put out something to at least say I certainly haven’t forgotten! Not a day goes by where I don’t think about the story, and by god this journal is going to take a bit. As always, please point out flaws and other things of which I should improve so that I may better the final version.

Also, thanks to Haar for some inclusion permission, I’m having a blast working on the personalities.

#Mordessa #tesg #Skyrim #Ra #Short Story

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